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29. Into A Grey Sky Morning

I'm relieved that it's over. But I guess it's a bittersweet kind of deal.

-- Drew Brees

It had been three days since you'd told her. Three days of strained silences. Three days of just caught looks from flaming eyes. Three days of starts and stops of conversations neither of you wanted to continue, three days of the boys giving you questioning looks, three days of self berating, of unjustifiable anger, of sadness, of clenched fists and jaws and nails digging into your palms so hard that you chewed them all away to keep the others from noticing the smiling bruises engraved into your skin.

Three days of realising that without the pain, curling fingers into your palms was not nearly as satisfying, and that biting the fleshy part of your thumb, right at the base, was almost as good, although it was never going to be as inconspicuous.

It was one of those overcast days, with clouds hanging over the horizon like bruises and overlying tension, the threat of rain tinging the whole atmosphere a heavy grey and purple, the heady smell of it permeating the enclosed space of the Impala through the cracked window in the front. It was one of the rare days that Sam was driving, his hands extra careful and tight on the wheel, his eyes sweeping over every inch of the road to be sure not to allow anything to happen to his brother's precious baby, lest he woke up dead. Not that he had to worry at that moment; his brother was in the back with you, taking up far more than his fair share of cramped space, his feet where your legs were supposed to go, his body stylized into a shape that would kill his back when he attempted to get out of it. His head was hanging just off of the edge of the seat, mouth slightly open as he snored in quiet contentment, one arm curled tightly beneath it, the other lying pressed against his side, the blunt fingers just brushing over the leather of the seat and his abdomen with every sway in motion the car underwent. His position looked almost comfortable, compared to yours – you were pressed as far away from his sleeping form as you could get, knees pulled up to your chest with your arms wrapped around them too tight, chin resting on them as you watched him with steady eyes, gaze drifting over his features, taking their time as they never could when he was awake.

Singularly you dissected every one of his features, with the biased speculation of those who are half in that state between sleep, waking and desperation to understand. He's too male to be called merely pretty, too masculine for his good looks to be passed off with that too feminine word, beautiful. He's too rugged to be conventionally handsome, and too rough around the edges to be palmed off as just attractive. Your eyes glide over his face, fixating on each piece, scrutinizing your pull to him, reassessing. The large, broad nose, with its bump right in the middle, from where it had been broken countless times, had healed over just as many. You can still remember the way it felt, mushed against your cheek as he deepened that kiss, angling his head to tangle his tongue more deeply with yours, to taste every corner of your mouth. The tiny sprinklings of nearly invisible freckles across his nose, and the tanned expanse of his high cheekbones, that are only visible in certain lights, and when you're so close his whole face fills your vision. Overly, wonderfully, ridiculously, enviously long lashes fluttering over his sleep-flushed skin as his eyelids flickered in dreaming. Smooth brown eyebrows, the forehead above them bereft of those worry lines he wore every time he was awake, and the tiny wrinkles around his mouth and eyes disappearing in his relaxation, making him look too young and vulnerable. Eyes trail down to where his skin changes from silk smooth to sandpaper satin, over his strong jaw line, with its darkened stubble, over the chin with its barely-there cleft, studying the whorls of his right ear. Then back to his mouth – lips that made your mind glaze over with sticky, cloying lust every time you thought of them, with their plump curves and dips, their full shape begging to be kissed, to be treasured, to be loved. His mouth was the most girlish part of him, outside those devastating eyes. You remember, like the sharpest, most vivid, wonderful dream you'd ever had, those lips pressed against yours, those eyes stabbing into yours, lust driven and hungry, like yours. But it wasn't a dream. It had happened, once. You can't help but think it may be the highest point of your existence, which is almost pathetic, in one way, but completely justified, in another.

As always you came to the same conclusion – he was Dean. And you couldn't do a fucking thing about how much you loved him, or why. It all just was.

You'd been in this position for four hours now. Severe, brain-melting, eye-crossing boredom was the least of your problems.

Your fingernail-less fingers dug into your ankles again, where they were keeping your feet up on the seat, so as not to disturb the peacefully sleeping Winchester. You felt he definitely hadn't been getting enough lately, and even a few hours snatched in the back of the car would be better than nothing. Your eyes glanced from his form again, to flicker briefly over the black head of hair in front of you, before you shut them forcefully, shutting down your thoughts. You didn't even know where to even start thinking about beginning to talk to her about it – about everything. Since the two of you had been cut off in the middle of the fight, nostrils flaring, eyes wide, cheeks flushed dark, murky colours and telling hues, you hadn't talked since – or at all, really.

Sure, there were the usual, clipped, 'if you wouldn't mind terribly, pass me the machete's, the cold, formal, 'you forgot that – insert random item, such as sock, shirt, silver bullet here – Lauren/Sharika's, and the always fun, 'you might not want to do that' warnings, which were always just that split second too late for some reason. But other than those wonderfully predictable, overlying sweet, underlying sharp and caustic comments, there was zip. Nada. Nothing. The two of you were strangers in too familiar skin again.

You shift as much as you can on the seat, frozen muscles protesting, the cricks and pins and needles and cramps making you clamp down on your tongue so you wouldn't make a sound. Dean wasn't the only sleeping person you needed to be hushed for – she was asleep too; which allowed the atmosphere to be just that infinitesimal bit lighter. It meant that the silence wasn't so loud, that the fact that you both should be saying something to each other, but weren't, wasn't as glaringly obvious. At least if she was unconscious you could think about pretending it was all okay, that everything wasn't as fucked around and awkward as you'd thought it would be.

You hate that it can be like this again – that she was at least partly right. No, she wasn't – stop fucking lying. You both hadn't been entirely yourself, back to normal, like you'd wanted to believe. But you felt like maybe, if you just ignored the spectre of John Winchester hovering over all your lives, you could ignore that fact too. That you could pretend everything was fine again, you were best friends again, there was nothing staining the air between you guilty blues and painful blacks and reds, there was no confusion, no ifs, ands or buts. Everything was just okay.

But she'd been right, damnit. You knew how much it had been fucking hurting her, keeping that secret from you, having to hold it in and act too. Having that hanging over her like the threat of hatred and scarring you over even worse, because you'd lose trust in even John. On one hand you're glad it's out there in the open now, you don't have to worry about it all coming out in a big wave of grotty, furious, accusatory words, because it already has. You're kind of darkly pleased that the waiting is over. But saying that you didn't care? What – about her? Is that what she meant? Because if she fucking believes that then what is the use of –

You stop yourself again. These thoughts have been intruding non-stop lately, making you futilely angry all over again, unable to let it out because you were too proud to talk it over with her. If she's going to be like that, you're going to be like that. Let's not fucking forget who started this – who pushed you – who left you – who never looked back – and now she dares to –

Sighing, you run your tongue over cracked lips, and grin. God it hurts – and it's funny, because it's all your fault. You're not sure whether you're thinking about your body – which really does ache – or about the situation with Sharika. It's probably both, each is equally troubling to you at this moment… although you can fix one, if you really think you can do it without waking up Dean.

And yes, you just don't want to think about it anymore.

Considering the angles, the velocity, the – well, everything – you eye the space over the top of his head, to the roof of the car, the distance between your body and his. Coming to your decision, eyes narrowing, you concentrate. Careful, careful, steady now, you stretch one leg out over the top of his head, pointing your foot, holding it still with one hand under your thigh as it stretches luxuriously, and you roll your ankle in that way you've always been told not to. Retract it, and rub the calf with a soft sigh, eyes half closed with the illicit, pleasant pull of muscles. You budge, shift a tiny bit on the seat so you're stable, and just as silently reach the other leg over in the same manner, suspended less than a foot away from his head. You could almost smile it looks so strange, your tiny foot with its grey and black chequered sock circling near that dark gold hair, almost close enough to touch, to kick his ear, to tickle his neck.

And you yawn, surprised at how tired you are. But then, you haven't been sleeping properly either. A guilty conscience can do that to a person, you suppose, eyelids drooping half closed again, this time with lethargy and the warmth enveloping your bones as you yawn a second time and flutter your eyelashes to keep yourself awake. You press your shoulders back against the seat, feeling the smooth, giving pressure of the cushions under leather, pushing back and leaning into it, feeling the roll and yield of the stuffing beneath your muscles, considering the best ways to sleep – or even if you can, or should.

You can't sleep with your cheek pressed against the window because it gives you that ridiculous looking red mark and a crick in your neck too painful to work out – a crick that you just have to leave there until you get used to it, because self massage works not at all, and having someone do it for you out of the three people you trust to actually touch you with anything akin to affection these days – yeah, the chances of that happening are about second to none.

There's really no other way for you to – and then your eyes are drawn back to Dean's figure. He looks pretty goddamn comfortable…you think, biting your bottom lip, and now your eyelids are definitely not drooping out of sleepiness…

You snap your eyes away, and they guiltily collide with the back of Sam's head, as though you're worried he may have been reading your thoughts. He's been a right bitch to you lately, and you have to wonder how much he knows about the fight you had with Sharika, if she talked to him about it. Although it's doubtful, and he's probably just reacting to you the way Sharika's acting to everyone, because he doesn't like how he's being treated and he knows it's all your fault, you have to consider how close the two of them have been growing, right under your nose. You liked it – encouraged it even, you really did. But it hurt that you might be losing Sam a little. All you can see of him is his shoulders, his right ear – mostly covered with all that soft-looking, brown hair, the tip of his nose, and his big, long fingered hands on the steering wheel, gripping the rim with carefully relaxed looking hands. You keep your eyes on these parts of Sam as long as you can – but they keep sliding back to Dean, back to that space between his back and the seat – where a cautious woman just might be able to fit, if she spoons her entire body around the man she loves…

You bite the inside of your lip, the raw left corner you've been chewing on for a while now, and consider the consequences. You could just pass it off when everyone woke up, that you were tired and hey, it's his own fault for taking up the entire damn seat. You might even be able to insult him, subtly of course, tell him he's more comfortable than the seat anyway… then again, he may take that as a compliment, or a come on.

But your eyes flick to the black hair again, agitated as March hares on mid-summer asphalt. What would she make of it? What would she do? Would she say something? This is both incentive to do it, and not to do it. The chance that she may speak.

Who cares what she thinks? You do. No, you don't. You won't. She's – who is she to stop you from doing what you want? Do you want? And she can stop you – she knows now, she can use it against you – she wouldn't – how the hell do you know –

Stop rationalising, you think to yourself. Just act.

So you do. You let go of your ankles, and reach one hand out to the space behind Dean's neck, balancing your weight on it as you shift sidewards and you're in that space, moving until your equilibrium is relying entirely on your elbow now, and your so close to Dean – so close – dare you touch? If you're really going to go through with this you have no choice, but the conviction it takes to make that first move, to wrap your right hand around his waist, to lean your head onto his shoulder, press yourself flush against him… this would be the first time you've touched him voluntarily, without any previous lead ups or come ons and your palms are sweating, very, very slightly. Who are you trying to kid? You could fill up about three buckets full of nervous perspiration, and you're still not touching him yet.

Just do it.

So you do. You lean down into all his strong, hard warmth, wrap yourself around him like a limpet, hold on until there's no Dean and Lauren, just one body, meshed together, with extra parts. You snuggle your nose into his right shoulder, trying to get comfortable, your feet and legs restricted somewhere on the seat behind you, knees tucked into the back of his, one hand clutching his t-shirt, right over his own hand, the other one bent up near the handle, so it can fit properly. You grip all of him tightly, trying to borrow some of the power and purpose and resolve he exudes, even sleeping. Trying to forget, and just live for a little while outside of the encroaching darkness you sense like the clouds on the horizon, trying to stop over-thinking everything that you never wanted to even admit, trying to keep your eyes off the lock of black hair, hanging down over the seat like a tentacle, until your paranoid, slipping mind thinks its watching you. You're tensed, waiting for him to wake up, to say – to do – something, anything. Surely if he was conscious he'd be shoving you off of him like you're some sort of dirt, brushing you off carelessly. But he snores on, quiet, his back rumbling against your chest, sending tingling waves of warmth through every particle of your being. He even seems to move back into you a little, his breathing becoming deeper, smoother, and you have to smile, nose filling with the scents of leather, soap, masculinity, sweat, Dean

You're spooning Dean, you think to yourself, feeling a silly, goofy smile spread around your mouth, turning into an all out grin as you stare at the back of the front seat, eyes avoiding the black lock to the right, sure that you're not going to sleep, preparing yourself for more tossing and turning and thinking about the fight.

You fall sound asleep, the smile still on your face, near content.

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AN: I have to say I really quite like this chapter. Even if it's short. And pointless. :P I suppose I was trying to ease myself back into the Lauren/Dean, and this is what happened. I think it's kind of sweet. What happened to you guys last week? It was like all my love had disappeared. I felt bereft. Tell me what you thought of this chapter, and instead of pussyfooting around I'll definitely be posting early.

Promo:

Waking up curled around Dean as though he was a particularly gorgeous teddy bear turns out to be not as un-embarrassing as previously thought. And then the night just keeps getting worse. Tune in for fondling of the other name for 'rooster', beer that just won't stop being a conduit for sexual innuendo, spastic intuition, and an over all feeling of inevitability, in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – Desperately Close To A Coffin Of Hope.